


Brand New

by LanJevinson



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Au first meeting, OOC everyone, smitten kittens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanJevinson/pseuds/LanJevinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He may not want a boyfriend, but he does have a weird, creepy crush on this dude on his morning train.</p><p>Mickey calls him Red, in his head.  It's a pretty lame nickname, but he doesn't have much else to go on, aside from the fact that- well, the guy's a ginger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brand New

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ben Rector's song of the same name.
> 
> Just a little exercise in AU fluff. Don't take it too seriously, and enjoy!

He never really thought he'd be here. First of all, just making it to age 22 without incarceration is a feat in and of itself, but renting an apartment that he legally pays for, living the mundanity of waking up early every day to go to his steady job? It's what Milkovich dreams are fucking made of.

He credits it all to his mom’s death when he was fourteen, honestly, which he knows is super fucking weird to say, but in a way it was almost like her last gift to her kids. Because luckily Terry was in the can at the time, and for once the system did its fucking job, and he, Mandy and Iggy and Colin were taken by CPS.

Most kids don't jump for joy when they're snatched away from their home and into the system, especially at their ages, but Mickey was actually glad when he and his brothers were placed together in a boys' home. It wasn't the fucking Holiday Inn, that's for sure, but Iggy and Colin said it was a lot like juvie, and they knew how to work _that_ system real good. Mickey had a hot meal every night, a crew of guys to have his back, he got his GED and an eventual apprenticeship at an auto body shop and life was pretty fucking good there, all things considered. And he was allowed visits with Mandy, who'd been taken in by Aunt Rande, every couple weeks too.

The only chink in the armor was the scariest one, when undeniably, without a doubt, he realized at age 15 that he was into dudes with the combined occurence of watching two of the older guys playfully wrestle, shirts off and sweaty the night after he'd been offered a blow job from some chick and couldn't get it up. (He'd suspected long before then, but that cinched it right there.) He became a master at pretending. Emulating his fag-bashing homophobic father wasn't difficult at all. But even the best actors can't hide who they are all the time, and at sixteen he landed his first _extra_ secret fuck buddy for a few months until the guy aged out (best thing about being secretly gay in a place like that is that none of the other secretly gay kids would ever dare to narc.) After that guy he'd sometimes take the L from work into Boystown to scratch the itch before returning for curfew. He was careful about it. He never got caught.

Terry came sniffing around, of course, though he never bothered to fill out paperwork or head to court to try to get his kids back. Iggy ran drugs for him again like old times and Mickey went back to collecting bets. Colin’s only real skill was B and E, and he wasn't even very good at that, so he got picked up a few days shy of his 18th birthday and was sent to the big house.

Iggy aged out thirteen months ahead of Mickey and left him alone for an entire year in the group home. It wasn't any worse, really. Mickey had a rep by then and was known for his quick thinking and dynamite gambling skills. The plan was always to head back home to Zemansky once he aged out too, but then Terry died and the neighborhood rejoiced, or so Mandy said. And it was weird, because while Mandy was almost crying when she told him, a part of her looked relieved. Like a weight had been lifted. And Mickey understood it, that feeling.

So, at 18 he got out. He kept the auto body job, and his sometimes-not-totally-worthless child advocate helped him get a shitty apartment. Iggy crashed there for a while, until he knocked up some chick and moved in with her parents. And Mandy stays sometimes, too, when she fights with her boyfriend of the week, none of them who he is ever introduced to. Who would have thought that Mickey would be the most successful of all of them?  (Actually, it makes sense.  He's always been the brains of the operation, which is saying something.)

But even though he's out, he still isn't really _out_. It isn't that he's ashamed. He likes what he likes, whatever. He just isn't interested in getting killed because he happens to like dick, so he keeps things on the down low. All through childhood and adolescence he survived in a world in which homos were beat and killed at the worst, harassed at the very least. And even though things are a little different outside of that bubble, he's still on edge about it. Call it a habit. He's working on it.

Mandy knows, because she's a nosy bitch who looks through his shit (he'll never let her borrow his phone again). And Iggy accidentally walked in on him with a rare sleepover guest once, but Iggy's both always high and generally unconcerned with everything except when he's getting high again, so that was whatever. And at work Mickey's neutral. He doesn't cat call to the women out on the street when the garage doors are open like the other guys (he almost wants Mandy to stop by someday with her baton and show them how to act). He doesn't share tales of past conquests, and he doesn't do the strip club after work. He's pretty sure these are giant red flags, but no one's flat out asked him about it. They probably just don't want to know the answer, officially.  Straight guys are fucking weird about that shit.

So yeah, Mickey keeps up with his usual shtick. He goes to gay bars, picks someone up, or more often, gets picked up. Most he's managed is a few weekends in a row with the same guy. He's not really looking for a boyfriend. He usually attracts preppy guys looking for some sort of bad boy fantasy. What the fuck would they even talk about if they weren't fucking?

(He may not want a boyfriend, but he _does_ have a weird, creepy crush on this dude on his morning train.)

Mickey calls him Red, in his head. It's a pretty fucking lame nickname, but he doesn't have much else to go on, aside from the fact that- well, the guy's a ginger. (He's also ridiculously fucking hot, but “hot guy” is just a little too obvious.)

Red's been on the same commute schedule as Mickey, on and off now, for almost a year. Red doesn't show up at the same time every day. Sometimes Mickey will go weeks without seeing him, actually. It's obvious by the paramedics uniform that he's usually wearing on the L that he does shift work.

Sometimes they share the same train car. Other times it's just a glimpse from the platform as they herd into the train with the rest of the commuters. One time they stood next to one another, though.

This was early on in his (ahem) obsession. At the time Mickey had only noticed him a couple times in that cute guy kinda way. You see someone, do a quick double take, then move on.

But the day they stood next to one another was the day everything changed. It was peculiarly more packed than usual, standing room only, and Mickey was just mindlessly hanging on to the pole waiting to get fucking going when at the last minute before the doors closed, Red rushed in, chest heaving with exertion, and searched around looking for a spot to stand and hang on.

Conveniently, a spot directly next to Mickey was free.

Mickey was used to people taking one look at his F-U-C-K hand and finding somewhere else to stand, especially as the train crawled further north. But Red didn't seem bothered. He flicked his eyes down to Mickey's fingers curling around the pole, then met Mickey's eyes, smirking.

Mickey gave him his best glare, and Red all out fucking grinned.

Well, fuck. Mickey was toast.

“Watch it,” Mickey snapped when the guy's hand accidentally brushed his when he went for the pole.

“Sorry,” Red said, smiling again and moving his hand farther up (fucker had several inches on Mickey), flicking his eyes briefly up and down Mickey's body and lingering on his biceps noticeably longer than the rest of him.

Holy fuck.

Mickey promptly turned in the other direction, cursing himself as he felt his ears heat up with nerves and embarrassment and _want_ , and stayed that way until Red's stop in fucking Lakeshore.

And thus, his infatuation with Red was born.

He doesn't think much about him when he's not commuting (or jerking off sometimes, whatever). It's just something to pass the time. Ain't like he can afford to waste the data on his cell phone plan like 90 percent of other commuters. But Mickey still looks for him, every day he heads to work. Enjoys the view as long as he's able.

Maybe, if Red ever struck up a conversation after Mickey's less-than-friendly introduction nearly a year ago, _maybe_ things would go differently. The guy's more than just a pretty face and a great body. He's interesting too. Which is weird, he knows, because he's literally only said two words to the guy. Like Mickey, he doesn't just stare down at his phone while commuting. Sometimes he's got a book with him, which he only ever seems to half heartedly read (and that's okay with Mickey, not like he was ever a fucking scholar himself). And occasionally he looks rough, in more than just a “Monday after a bender” kinda way, but in a bone-deep kinda way, like maybe sometimes life ain't always peachy. He's South Side, Mickey can tell (if the guy getting on the red line on 69th wasn't obvious enough). And Mickey likes that. Makes him feel like he'd be on more equal footing, if they were ever to have a real conversation.

This morning starts out a little differently than usual for Mickey. He's out of coffee, so he doesn't leisurely sit and sip today while he glances at the paper like he usually does. But because he has fuck all else to do in his tiny, miserable apartment he finds himself arriving at the 69th street station at least seven minutes early.

He's debating between wasting precious data to browse the internet or maybe starting a new game of 2048 (that shit’s addictive) when he sees him. Red is loping in his direction at the other end of the station, in plain clothes today that fit him _much_ better than his paramedic uniform. Red's staring at his phone, oblivious, earbuds in, as he stops fifty feet away to wait, so Mickey takes advantage and stares a little longer.

Red looks up right then, of course, and for at least ten seconds they make eye contact. Mickey freezes, phone midway to his face, painfully aware that he looks like a total tool as the guy lifts his mouth in a half-smile. Red hesitates for a split second, then starts heading in Mickey's direction.

Fuck. Did Mickey remember to brush his teeth this morning? How bad does his uniform smell like oil and gasoline right now?

But Red's eyes suddenly flit away, over Mickey's shoulder, eyebrows drawing together. Mickey turns on instinct and sees the drunken homeless guy who's been squatting on the L for a least a week now, always lurking around for a purse to snag, suddenly brazenly go for the bag of a commuter busy on her phone. Dude must be desperate today.

The woman shrieks and skitters away, choosing to lose the purse and all its contents in favor of a physical altercation with a crazy, dirty, smelly guy.  Mickey doesn't blame her one bit.

“Hey, asshole!” someone yells as they blow by Mickey's shoulder before Mickey can even begin to figure out his next move.

Like the perfect fucking hero he obviously is, Red takes off after the guy. He's caught up with him in several long-legged strides, because the other guy's an old drunk and Red's stupidly in shape (or so he looks, anyway). But old crazy drunks are surprisingly strong and determined, Mickey knows from experience, and soon Red and the hobo are wrestling for the purse, moving closer and closer to the edge of the platform.

“Oh, shit,” Mickey yells out loud as, with one mighty shove, the drunk pushes Red over the edge of the platform.

Like a cartoon character, Red teeters, flailing his arms fruitlessly before he topples over the side and onto the track, disappearing from sight.

“Holy fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Mickey is moving before his mind has caught up to his legs, running toward the spot where Red fell.

Other commuters are peering over the edge, gasping and shrieking.

Red is lying prone on the tracks, a splatter of blood decorating the steel rail behind his head.

Fuck.

“Is he dead?” a woman cries.

On cue, Red moves his head slightly and moans.

“We gotta get him out of there!” someone else yells.

“You ain't supposed to move someone who might have a neck injury,” Mickey snaps in the direction of the voice. He can't peel his eyes off of Red.

“Train!” someone screams, and as one, the crowd of bystanders turn in horror as the familiar roaring of the L hits their ears and the rails under Red's body rattle and vibrate.

The horn is going and the brakes are screeching, but Red is laying a hundred feet from where the L typically comes to a stop in the station. There's no way the train will stop in time.

“Shit. Fuck!” Mickey doesn't stop to think. He leaps down onto the tracks, landing badly on his left ankle and hissing in pain.

“Hurry!” someone cries, and Mickey would flip them off if he had the time. He hobbles as quickly as his bum ankle will let him to Red and crouches over him.

“Hey, man! Dude, you gotta get up! We're about to be fuckin’ pancakes!”

Red groans again. Above them, people are screaming. Mickey turns his head and nearly shrieks himself. They're about five seconds away from becoming hamburger meat.

Mickey yanks at Red’s dead weight and is pulled off his feet, falling down on top of Red. Guy’s solid as a rock.

Mickey grunts with effort as he rolls, pulling Red with him until they're over the edge of the rail and tucked into the tiny space under the lip of the platform. Just as the train blows by them.  
Mickey chokes on exhaust and gravel as the L shrieks past, coming to a slow stop only 20 or so feet in front of them. Mickey rolls off of Red and flattens himself against the concrete wall as best he can to catch his breath. This space is definitely only meant for one.

“Hey man,” He puts a hand on Red's shoulder and shakes a little. “You still with us?”

Red moans again.

There's more screaming and yelling as people begin to descend the ladder to the tracks.

“An ambulance is on its way!” A patrol cop appears in Mickey's view. “Holy shit, that was close.”

“You're fucking telling me,” pants Mickey as he carefully sits up, moving onto his knees to bend over Red. “Stay with me,” he orders Red again, gently slapping his cheek. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn't respond this time.  The blood pools slowly behind his head and Mickey pats himself down desperately, looking for some sort of cloth to press against the wound.  Of course, he's wearing a fucking one piece uniform.

"Here!"  A woman in the gaggle of people crowding around them thrusts a flowery scarf at him and Mickey carefully shoves the fabric behind Red's head.

The wait for the paramedics feels like hours. Mickey starts talking loudly and doesn't stop, hoping to keep Red conscious. At one point during Mickey's rant about who should have been killed off The Walking Dead first, Red groans “ _Jesus_.”

“Oh, you're more of a Downtown Abbey guy, huh Red?” Mickey teases, and he swears Red attempts a chuckle.

When the paramedics finally arrive, Mickey's forced out of their way.  But he huddles close, telling them what happened as best he can, informing them that Red’s a paramedic too, he thinks. Red manages a tight “yeah” in agreement as they put a neck brace on him and transport him onto the gurney. They ask him his name (Ian, Red tells them), and Mickey feels like an idiot for not thinking to ask him first. Still, Mickey hovers, and when the chick paramedic holds the ambulance door open for Mickey to follow, he hops in. Maybe it's weird, but whatever, he wants to make sure Red- _Ian_ \- is okay.

“You can hold his hand, if you want,” she tells him as she shines a light in each of Ian's eyes.

Mickey hesitates, then grabs Ian's hand and squeezes. He could swear Ian squeezes back faintly.

Mickey feels like his heart is beating out of his chest, but the paramedics are calm and collected, changing out gauze pressed against Ian's head every few minutes.

“Head injuries bleed a lot,” the male paramedic tells Mickey evenly.  Mickey says nothing, just holds Ian's hand and jiggles his leg as they speed through the city.

“We've got to take him now,” the woman says to him as they park at the emergency room. “Have a seat in the waiting room and someone will come for you.”

He thinks he should maybe say goodbye or something, but he doesn't know what to say to this perfect stranger, so Mickey just stands there as Ian is wheeled away.

The patrol officer from the station meets him in the waiting room with another cop to take an official statement, asks him to testify if necessary. They've got the old drunk in custody and video surveillance to back everything up, so it should be an open and close case, the officer says.

As he's finishing up with the cops a gaggle of young people enter the waiting room and storm the front desk. They look vaguely familiar, but Mickey doesn't pay them much attention.

“Ian Gallagher?” a nurse calls, and the family leaps to their feet.

“Perfect timing,” the patrol cop says, and he leads the way over to the family, all of them wearing different levels of distraught expressions. Mickey brings up the rear, feeling very out of place and wondering why he's even stayed this long.

“Mr. Gallagher is alert,” the nurse tells them as they huddle around her. Across the circle, the oldest guy in the group stares directly at Mickey with piercing blue eyes.

 _Lip Gallagher_. The name comes to him quickly. This is the Gallagher family that lived on North Wallace when Mickey was growing up. Lip once wrote an English paper for Mickey.

He racks his brain for a memory of Ian and comes up with a faint image of a gangly, freckled, awkward kid. Damn, puberty was sure good to Ian Gallagher.

“He has a large gash at the back of his head. We've stitched it up and given him heavy painkillers, and he's headed for a CAT scan now to make sure there's no additional damage. He's more than likely concussed, so he won't be cleared to work for a few days,” the nurse tells them all, looking from one anxious face to another in turn.

Ian's siblings all begin talking at once.

“He's takin’ meds,” the brown haired woman says. “You sure the pain meds won't react-”

“Can we see him?” the ginger girl with a tiny baby interrupts her.

“Was it an accident?” the teenage kid wonders.

“I need to know exactly what the fuck happened,” Lip yells over them all. “Including why Mickey Milkovich is standing here.”

Every pair of eyes are on him suddenly, including the little black kid. Jesus, how many Gallagher siblings are there?

“Mr. Milkovich saved your brother's life,” cop number one tells the others. “Your brother got in a scuffle with another man and was pushed onto the tracks. Mickey here jumped down and rolled your brother to safety. It was a very close call.”

“Oh my God,” the oldest girl with the dark hair (Fiona- she's Fiona, he remembers) moans from behind her hands. “Oh my God.”

“Shit,” the teenage guy mutters.

“Jesus.” Lip’s eyes lose their haughty glimmer instantly. “Thanks, man.”

Mickey sort of shrugs in response. He doesn't like being the center of attention like this.

“We'll need a statement from the victim as soon as he's able,” cop number two says to the nurse.

“I'll come get you as soon as he's back from his scan,” she assures them, then leaves them in the hallway.

“I'm just gonna-” Mickey doesn't bother to finish his sentence. The Gallagher siblings have already turned their backs on him. What the fuck ever. It ain't like he wants them to grovel at his feet or anything.

He high tails it out of there and calls his boss on the way, letting him know why he's running late.

The guys in the shop rib him about being a hero all day (as if Mickey would be able to get what happened out of his mind anyway), and when he takes his usual train home after work there's a TV crew set up at his stop, so he rides on to Garfield and hoofs it home from there. Figures the incident would pick up some news coverage, but he ain't doing an interview. No fucking way.

It's back to business as usual the next day on his commute. No one so much as glances in Mickey's direction, which is the way he likes it. And Ian isn't there, of course.

Mandy calls him as he's getting off in Uptown.

“Douchebag, why didn't you tell me?” she demands the second the phone is to his ear.

“Tell you what?” he snaps back.

“You saved my best friend's life yesterday!”

“Oh,” Mickey says as he crosses the street. “Yeah.”

“ _Oh yeah_? Mick, that's huge! And you didn't even stay so he could thank you!”

“Like I was gonna wait around with his asshole family to talk to some dude I don't know.”

“They are assholes,” Mandy agrees. “But Ian isn't. He wants to see you. Say thank you.”

“He'll see me on the train.”

Mandy lets out a frustrated screech.

“Look, asshole. I wasn't supposed to tell you this, but he kinda has a crush on you.”

“ _What?_ ” Mickey's not proud of it, but he trips over his own feet a little at that. “You playing fuckin’ matchmaker or something?” he snaps, to cover for being a total loser about that piece of information.

“Relax.” Mickey can practically feel Mandy’s eye roll through the phone. “I told him you wouldn't be interested.”

“You fucking told him that?” Mickey practically shouts as he comes to a dead stop on the sidewalk. That earns some choice words from the guy behind him, and Mickey flips him off without looking up.

“Gotcha,” taunts Mandy. “Of course you'd be into him. Everyone is.”

Mickey can't argue that.

“Tell me exactly what was fucking said,” he demands.

“Nothing. He just blushed a little when we were talking about you is all, and I filled in the blanks a little. Did a little hinting maybe.”

“Whatever.” His heart rate slows back to normal. Jesus, he needs a cigarette. He digs in his coveralls and lights up.

“So come up with me after work. I'll introduce you.”

“He's still in the fucking hospital?” Mickey questions on his exhale.

“Yeah. They wanted to monitor him overnight because… yeah,” she finishes awkwardly.

Mickey considers.

“Fine,” he says finally. So maybe he wants to see how Red's doing himself. Maybe see about that crush, who knows. Mickey's had a bit of a dry spell lately.

Suddenly a thought occurs to him. “Wait! How the fuck are you best friends with Ian Gallagher?”

Mandy sighs dramatically.

“I was his beard in high school. We stayed close.”

“How come you never talked about him before?”

“I _have_ , you just don't fucking listen!”

“Huh?” Mickey teases.

“I _said_ you just don't fucking- aw, Jesus!”

“Gotcha,” he jeers back at her, repeating her earlier taunt. “Later dick breath.”

“Back atcha.”

The day passes by slowly with the anticipation of what's to come tonight.  He's got a spare change of clothes in his locker at work. They don't smell so fresh and they're wrinkled as fuck, but they're better than his greasy uniform. The guys tease him good naturedly about a hot date and he flips them all off over his shoulder as he heads out at the end of the day.

Mandy is waiting for him at the smoking area, a few hundred feet from the hospital entrance when Mickey hops off his bus, and she scowls when she sees him.  She still hands over her cigarette to share without him even needing to ask, though.

“Coulda put some effort in.”

“Changed out of my coveralls, didn't I?” He punches her in the shoulder and she punches him back, twice as hard.

“Gallaghers are still here,” she warns him as they move through the lobby. Of fucking course they are.

He follows her into the elevator, even though he probably shouldn't.  This was a stupid idea. But he's here already and he'd look like a total pussy if he backs out now.

When they reach the fourth floor he lets Mandy take the lead since she knows where the fuck she's going, and soon they're coming to a stop outside a partially open door. Voices and laughter filter out into the hallway, and Mickey watches with interest as Mandy's confident facade breaks for only a moment before she steels herself and raps on the door.

“Ian?”

Mickey hovers by the door for a moment until Mandy sees that he's not following her and stalks back to grab him by the arm.

“Hey, Mandy!” A voice, cheerful, calls out, and Ian Gallagher, sitting up in bed and eating a fucking pudding cup, comes into Mickey's view. The guy even looks good in a hospital gown. His smile freezes when he sees Mickey behind him, only to be replaced a split second later with an awkward laugh. “Uh, hey.”

Mickey lifts his arm in a half wave, eyeing the other occupants in the room for a moment before settling back on Ian. Everyone is staring at him.

Several seconds of silence pass.

“Thank you,” Ian says quickly, suddenly remembering himself. “For saving my life. It was really- thanks.”

“Yeah.” Mickey rubs the back of his neck. “No problem. You'da done the same, or whatever.”

More silence.

In the corner of the room, Lip Gallagher huffs.

“As riveting as this conversation is, I gotta take a piss.” And then he herds the other kids out with him (Fiona is missing from the crowd today).

Mickey doesn't fail to notice that Mandy moves further into the room, giving Lip a wide berth and staring at the ground as he passes.

Great. Now he's gonna have to kick the shit out of Ian's brother. That'll win him brownie points _for sure_.

“Ian, this is Mickey,” Mandy introduces as the door clicks shut. “My brother.”

“We've met,” Ian says. “Kinda. I mean, before this.” He gestures to the back of his head. “I've noticed you on the train.”

Mickey can't help but smirk a little. The guy's different than he expected. Less suave. More awkward.

“Yeah. You too.” That's a fucking understatement, because Mickey's more than just _noticed_ him back, but Ian never has to know that.

“I'm gonna go get a pop,” Mandy says suddenly, winking entirely indiscreetly at Ian before sauntering out of the room.

“Real subtle, ain't they?” Mickey jokes, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door.

“Like a fucking sledgehammer,” Ian agrees.

“So you gonna live and shit?” Mickey teases.

“Yeah.” Ian nods seriously. “Just banged up a little. Serves me right I guess.”

“Never get between a drunk and his drink,” Mickey agrees. Ian laughs, a little too loudly and Mickey chuckles too, because it's contagious. “Glad you're alright man. This way I still get to appreciate the view.” He's never been much of a flirter. He's usually a more direct ‘wanna fuck?’ kind of person. But Ian laughs again and seems to appreciate the effort, so whatever.

“So, I just got out of a relationship,” Ian tells him, looking meaningfully at Mickey.

“Alright. Yeah.” Mickey stares at his feet, shuffling awkwardly. The rejection stings, and it pisses him off that it does so.

“Shit. I mean- I was trying to tell you I don't have a boyfriend. If maybe- if you wanted to get dinner? And not just because I owe you. Because I do, you know. For saving me?” Ian huffs and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don't usually ask guys out.” He throws Mickey a sheepish half smile and Mickey can't help but smile back.

“They usually do the askin’ huh?” That makes sense. Looking the way he looks, Ian's probably never had to put in much of an effort.

Ian shrugs. After a beat of silence where they're just _looking_ at one another, Ian prompts, “so, pizza sometime?”

“Who doesn't fuckin’ like pizza,” Mickey answers with a shrug, outwardly nonchalant but inwardly freaking the fuck out. What the fuck is he doing?

“Yeah.” Ian grins, suddenly all confidence now that the hard part is over. “You should give me your number. So I can text you when I bust out of here.”

Mickey rattles it off, heart beating quickly as Ian grabs his phone off the bedside table and inputs Mickey's contact information.

“To be clear,” Ian clarifies suddenly. “I think you're hot. This isn't-”

“A pity date?” Mickey interrupts. It's meant to be a joke, but it comes out kinda pathetic sounding. Because he does get why Ian wants to be certain they're on the same page. Mickey's look doesn't exactly scream stereotypical queer, but he thinks he's been pretty obvious about his intentions, what with the blatant staring and the attempts at flirting and all.

“I was gonna say a ‘thank you dinner’, but.” Ian does that awkward laugh again.

“Yeah. Got it.” Mickey can feel heat rising up the back of his neck and spreading to his ears. This guy thinks Mickey's _hot_. No one's ever told him that in a non-smarmy, sober way before.

“Okay.” Ian grins.

“See ya,” Mickey says, because goodbyes are awkward as fuck, especially when you've just agreed to your first real live date with an Actual Dude.

He isn't expecting to have an audience when he lopes out of Ian's room with a goofy fuckin’ grin on his face, but the Gallagher siblings and Mandy are staring at him as they loiter in the hallway.

“ _Mickey and Ian sitting in a tree_ ,” Mandy chants, making kissy noises as the others, minus that asshole Lip, titter.

“Bitch, I'll kill you and make it look like an accident,” Mickey threatens Mandy mildly as he strides by them, giving all of them, but especially Lip, the finger as he walks away.

He tries to ignore the fact that he's on pins and needles for the next few days. By day three he's resigned himself to the fact that Ian probably only took his number to get him out of his hair. Ian doesn't show up to their train station on Thursday or Friday, which makes sense, really, because the guy probably hasn't been cleared for work yet, but it just adds to Mickey's anxiety. Maybe he read the whole situation wrong and he just came off looking like a desperate creep?

At 11:30 in the morning on Saturday, Mickey gets a text from an unknown number. _you still up for pizza? tomorrow night?_. And then, five seconds later: _this is Ian btw_.

Mickey grins and can't help but bust Ian's chops a little, because even though he knows it's not Ian's fault Mickey's practically had a panic attack for the last few days, he wants Ian to suffer a little too. He texts back _who?_ and then gnaws on his lip for a full four minutes while he waits for a response. Maybe he scared him off?

He laughs out loud at the reply. A series of emojis depicting the train accident, starting with a running man emoji and ending with the bandaged smiley.

 _right, I remember now_ he texts back.

an replies immediately. _just your typical Wed morning huh?_

They agree to meet at Gino’s at six tomorrow. That's an entire day away. What the fuck is Mickey supposed to do until then?

Mandy makes things worse by showing up unannounced that night, already tipsy, and intent on giving Mickey a hard time.

“Ian's excited about your date,” she singsongs when he opens the door. He nearly swings it shut in her face but she sticks her foot in it and muscles her way inside. “He's all worried about what to wear and I told him he'd be lucky if you even bothered to shower.” She snickers to herself.

The anxiety that's lingered in Mickey's chest the last few days suddenly shoots through the roof. A date. He's going out on a date. With a guy. With a hot guy. A date. Ian had called it that himself, and yet Mickey had really tried not to think of it in those terms.

Mandy's eyes go wide as she takes in his expression.

“Holy shit, you're nervous!” Mandy cackles as she weaves further into the apartment. “I am _so_ telling Ian!”

Lightning fast, Mickey bolts over to Mandy and tears her phone out of her hand.

“Relax, I was kidding!” She scowls at him.

“Why the fuck are you even here right now?” Mickey demands.

“I was on my way to the bars and had to piss, Jesus.” Mandy snatches her phone back and shoves it in her purse inelegantly.

“You're already drunk,” he points out.

“Not paying nine bucks for a beer.” She smirks at him, then saunters into his bathroom and slams the door. Mickey paces, pulling on his bottom lip until she emerges with a disgusted face. “Public restroom woulda been cleaner. Might wanna clean the shitstains off your toilet if you plan on getting lucky tomorrow, douchebag. Speaking of-” she grins wickedly “-don't forget to douche it out.” She yelps as he yanks on her hair and wrestles her to his front door.

“You gonna be safe?” he asks her, even though she's a bitch and he shouldn't give two shits if something happens to her.

Mandy rolls her eyes and hikes up her skirt to show him the knife strapped to her thigh, then whips her baton out of her purse lightning fast.

“I fucking dare someone to try it.”

“Whatever. Text me when you get there, alright?”  Then he slams the door in her face and immediately goes to survey the bathroom situation.

Time passes, in that slow-yet-quick way it does when you're anxious for something, and Mickey finds himself making the short walk to Gino's Pizza at 5:55 the next day. He'd put a little elbow grease into cleaning the bathroom like Mandy had so rudely suggested, then made sure his sheets didn't smell _too_ bad before haphazardly making the bed. Whatever, he isn't gonna be someone he's not, especially for a probable one night stand. (But oh shit, if this goes sour he'll have to figure a new way to get to work. Because fuck seeing Ian every day then.  That shit would get awkward.)

Ian's waiting outside of Gino’s, leaning against the building in tight dark jeans, chucks, and a t-shirt under a hoodie. He looks nervous, which lessens Mickey's own nerves considerably. Mickey squares his shoulders and stalks toward him. Fake it til you make it.

“Hey, firecrotch,” he calls in greeting, and Ian starts, but grins, straightening up off the building. “Little overdressed, ain't ya?” Mickey gestures to Ian's head. It's early September and in the sun it's easily still in the sixties, and Ian's got the hood of his jacket up.

“Says the guy with the sleeves cut off of a hoodie,” Ian jibes. “What, exactly, is the point of that?” Mickey grins and flexes, and Ian concedes with the tilt of his head, lips quirked and eyes bright as he gives Mickey a quick, pleased once over. “Mine’s to cover this,” Ian finally answers, turning his back to Mickey and pulling down the hood to expose a huge bald patch and angry red stitches.

Mickey makes a disgusted hacking noise in the back of his throat and Ian's barks out a short, loud laugh, pulling his hood back on and turning around again.

“You're definitely doing the fucking,” Mickey tells him matter of factly. “No way I could get it up if I had to look at that.”

Ian's mouth drops open at Mickey's brazen topic change, but he recovers quickly.

“What makes you think I put out on the first date?” Ian teases back.

“ _Please._ ” Mickey rolls his eyes and gives Ian one last once over, licking the seam of his lips, before he leads the way into the restaurant. He feels electric, with his sudden boost of confidence. He thinks of all the time he's wasted, staring at Ian from afar like a stalker, when they coulda been doing this sooner. With the awkwardness of their first real meeting out of the way, Ian seems like he's easy to talk to. The obvious mutual sexual attraction doesn't hurt either. Ian's definitely unlike anyone Mickey's even remotely been interested in in the past.

They each order two slices of meat lovers, a beer for Mickey and a coke for Ian, and Ian pays for the both of them, telling the very uninterested cashier, “This guy saved my life the other day.” Then they choose a two person booth in the back corner, lapsing into a comfortable silence as they dig in immediately.

“So what do you do?” Ian asks after a minute as he pulls a string of cheese off his chin. “I mean, I've seen the coveralls but I wasn't sure.”

“Auto body repair, mostly,” Mickey answers. “Like after accidents and shit. But sometimes we get a custom project. Refurbed a ‘69 Camaro last summer.”

“No way!” Ian looks a little overly impressed by that, but Mickey preens a little anyway. “Got any pictures?” Mickey fumbles for his phone and swipes through a few pictures he'd saved as Ian whistles lowly.

“You a car guy?” Mickey asks. Ian blushes a little when he answers, “not really. I just like pretty things.”

“Me either,” Mickey confesses. “I mean, I like pretty things too, obviously.” He gestures across to Ian and smirks when the other guy's flush deepens. “But I'm not all that into cars. My license is expired and everything.”

“So how'd you end up doing auto body work, then?” Ian wonders curiously.

“Lived in a group home starting at fourteen.” Mickey takes a bite of his pizza and, as he chews, says, “got an internship and it stuck. Pays good, accepts my GED.” He shrugs.

“Right. Mandy's told me about the group home before. I keep forgetting you're her brother. Didn't make the connection.”

“I didn't even know you were friends.” Mickey shrugs, and Ian mirrors the gesture. Then recognition suddenly dawns on Ian's face.

“You're the kid who got kicked out of little league for pissing on first base,” he crows so loudly that other patrons turn to stare. “Fucking hilarious!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey grumbles. “I really had to go.” He swallows a gulp of beer and Ian sips at his coke. “So you're a paramedic.”

“Yeah,” Ian nods. “My ex got me into it. Going on a couple years now.”

“Suits you,” Mickey tells him. “You seem like the knight in shining armor type.”

Ian snorts and his face darkens.

“Shit was tough going for a while. Needed something to give me purpose.”

Mickey nods, but doesn't question further. Ian's hesitating, like he's deciding whether he wants to say something. His hands disappear into his lap.

“I'm bipolar,” Ian says finally. Mickey can tell that he's shredding his napkin under the table. “Diagnosed when I was 18.”

“What's that?” asks Mickey. He thinks he's maybe heard the words before, but he doesn't know what they mean.

Ian squints, considering.

“It's like, one day you're up, you're excited, everything's fucking great and you want to go go go and do crazy shit, and the next you can hardly get the effort to even breathe.”

“Fuck.” It's all Mickey can really say. “You take meds and shit?”

“Yeah. Why I don't drink. Well, that and I'm not 21 yet.” He smiles a little sheepishly.

“You don't got a fake?”

“I do, but he's got priors.” There's that sheepish smile again.

“I'm impressed, Red.” Mickey leans back in his seat. “Usually my guys are a little more polished than you.”

“Oh yeah?” The comment is mild, but the wind seems to go out of Ian's sails a little.

“Yeah.” Mickey grins wolfishly as he takes a deep swig to finish off his beer, pleased that Ian's so easy to rib. “I like it.”

They grin at each other some more. Mickey's pretty sure he hasn't smiled this much ever.

“So, I told you my big secret,” Ian says breezily after a beat. “Your turn.”

Mickey pauses. He's pretty much an open book- what you see is what you get. He racks his brain for something, anything to tell this dopey beautiful kid sitting in front of him. There's only one thing he can think of, something he's never told anyone before.

“I'm gay,” he blurts out before he can psych himself out.

Ian blinks at him.

“Uh,” Ian says, chuckling awkwardly. “You do realize you made a gay sex joke the moment we saw each other out there, right?”

“Yeah,” Mickey snorts. “I mean, I know you know. And Mandy knows, and one of my brothers. But-” he takes a fruitless swig of his empty bottle. “Never like, actually told anyone before.”

He watches Ian's eyes widen and jaw drop. He's feeling like a huge idiot until Ian says, “wow.”

“What,” snaps Mickey, a little harsher than he intended, because he's feeling embarrassed and confused by Ian's reaction.

“You just came out. For the first time ever.”

Mickey's eyes travel around the restaurant on instinct.

“Yeah.”

“To me.”

“Yeah, asswipe, I was here too,” Mickey snarks.

Ian laughs.

“That's huge! We gotta celebrate!”

“How? By doing something really gay?” Mickey raises his eyebrows acrimoniously at Ian, and Ian leans forward in the booth, so close Mickey can feel Ian's breath on his face.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees, voice lowering in a way that shoots directly to Mickey's dick. “By doing something _really_ super gay. The gayest, even.”

Mickey doesn't need to be asked twice. They throw away their greasy plates and head out the door, brushing shoulders as they walk. But they stall on the sidewalk after just a few feet out the door.

“Uh. I'm back home right now. I could kick everyone out for a while or...” Ian trails off, scratching the back of his head, then wincing as he touches his stitches. “Ow. Fuck.”

“Jesus, what is this, fucking high school?” Mickey snarks. “Nah, I'm just a couple blocks from here if that's cool.”

“Cool,” Ian repeats, and he makes an _after you_ gesture with his arm, so Mickey leads the way, turning around in time to see Ian's eyes dart quickly back up to Mickey's face from his ass.

Mickey snorts, and Ian shrugs, unperturbed about getting caught checking Mickey out.

“Was in a group home for a while too,” Ian tells him. “When I was sixteen. Just a few weeks.”

“No shit,” Mickey says, lighting a cigarette. “CPS take you?”

“Yeah, for a while. My parents are drunk, crazy assholes, so my sister became our guardian.”

Frank Gallagher. Mickey remembers him well. Always smelling like piss and vomit, trying to weasel his way out of paying up.

“How many of you are there?”

“Fiona, Lip, me, Debbie, Carl, and Liam. And Debbie has a baby, too.”

Mickey takes a drag of his smoke and passes it on. Their fingers brush as the cigarette exchanges hands.

Mickey's pretty sure no one's ever looked hotter smoking, even if Ian does only take a tiny little puff before handing it back.

“You guys still on North Wallace?” he wonders.

Ian's eyebrows go up.

“Yeah. How'd you remember?”

“Sold coke to your dad a couple times. Plus Lip did a paper for me once or twice. Hey, speaking of that asshole, what's up with him and Mandy?”

“Nothing, now,” Ian tells him, tone carefully neutral. “Dated for a while in high school. Didn't end well.”

Mickey exhales smoke from his nose, then flicks the butt away. “Hmm,” he says, because there's obviously more Ian's not saying. But right now he doesn't much care. Better things on his mind. “This is me.”

Ian doesn't comment on or even look remotely shocked by the state of the exterior of Mickey's apartment complex. “Breathe through your mouth,” Mickey instructs as they enter the stairwell. Ian laughs and does as he's told.

The nerves return a little as they ascend the three flights of stairs to Mickey's place. He's usually very drunk or almost there when he brings guys home. And most importantly, he's usually only interested in a quick fuck.

This is different. He could see himself hanging out with this guy. Like in a sappy romantic kinda way.

“You wanna watch a movie or somethin’?” he asks to stall a little as they kick off their shoes in his tiny, dark entryway. He definitely wants to fuck, but it seems a little wrong just to jump right into it.

“Yeah, okay.” Ian sounds a little surprised, but not opposed.

“You pick out the flick. I'll grab beers. Uh, I mean-” He stops talking abruptly, because Ian has literally just told him he couldn't drink.

“Water?” Ian suggests, shrugging apologetically.

“You don't care that I drink in front of you, do ya? Cuz I don't have to,” Mickey calls from the kitchen, where he fills a glass with water, then snags a bottle from the fridge.

“If that bothered me I'd never see my family again,” Ian calls back with a laugh. “You have shitty taste in movies, by the way. What's with all the Segal?”

“Get the fuck out of my house,” Mickey deadpans as he re-enters the living room and finds Ian bending over Mickey's meager DVD collection stacked on the entertainment center. “We're watching _Under Seige_ and you're gonna fuckin’ like it.”

Ian holds up his hands in surrender and does the honors of putting the DVD in, then he collapses next to Mickey on his shitty couch.

“Mighta been my first gay experience,” Mickey jokes, gesturing towards the TV with his bottle as the movie begins.

“N’Sync for me,” chuckles Ian.

“No fuckin’ way!” Mickey outright laughs.

“I'm serious! My older sister had this poster on her wall for a while until she decided they weren't cool anymore. Found it in the trash.” Ian's lips quirk up in the corners.

“You like the pretty boys, huh?” Mickey teases him, lighting another cigarette.

“Eh,” Ian answers noncommittally, looking Mickey up and down out of the corner of his eye. Mickey hides his grin behind his smoke.

Mickey's seen the movie so many times he could probably quote it word for word, so he doesn't even need to pay attention. Besides, he's got better things on his mind. He lasts ten minutes before he shifts a little so that their legs are touching at the knees. Ian pushes back, and Mickey's pulse speeds up.

Another few minutes, and then Ian leans over at the shoulder a little.

“You try for the yawn and grab I'mma kick your ass,” Mickey jibes. Ian chuckles, sheepish.

“Actually I was just gonna ask you something.”

“What's that?” Mickey licks his lips and Ian’s eyes tracks the movement and linger on Mickey's mouth. After a long beat of silence, Ian finally meets Mickey's eyes again.

“I think I maybe wanna kiss you,” Ian breathes.

“That ain't a question.” And Mickey closes the space between their lips without preamble. Ian presses back with immediate enthusiasm.

Mickey's made out with guys before on hook ups, but usually as means to an end- namely, getting the dude to get on him a little faster. But he's never kissed someone just because he wants to kiss them.

Everything about Ian is different than the others.

Mickey tugs at the back of Ian's neck and Ian follows the silent direction until they're horizontal on the couch, Ian hovering over Mickey with his weight on his elbows.

“Watch the stitches, yeah?” Ian murmurs against Mickey's lips, and then he dives back in. Mickey opens his mouth in response and licks at Ian's bottom lip. Ian hums and reciprocates, and the feel and taste of Ian's tongue against Mickey's own sends tingles directly to Mickey's dick.

They stay like that, kissing and licking into each other's mouths for what could have been minutes, maybe even hours (although the movie’s still playing so the latter isn't likely). All Mickey knows is his lips feel puffy and slick and his jaw aches a little, in a good way.

Ian shifts a little, rutting the hard line of his erection against Mickey's thigh. Mickey groans and pushes back wantonly. He's just starting to fumble for Ian's belt when a shrill beeping startles his hands away.

“The fuck?” Mickey grumbles, voice thick. “You wearing a chastity belt or something?”

Ian snorts and sits up so he can use his other hand to turn off his watch alarm.

“That's my meds and bed alarm.”

“Meds and bed?” Mickey pushes at Ian's chest so he can get out from under him. He's still coming down from his make out euphoria. “It that late already?”

“9:30,” Ian says, and he ducks his head in embarrassment. “Gotta stick to a schedule or shit gets wonky for me.”

Mickey runs his hand over his lips.

“You saying you have to go?”

“Yeah.” Ian looks equal parts reluctant and embarrassed. “But I can stay a little longer.” His eyes still hold a flicker of arousal. In contrast, Mickey feels like he's burning up.

"This bipolar shit's pretty serious, huh?" Mickey wonders.

"Yeah."  Ian's brow furrows.  "Learned the hard way the best way to manage it is to keep up with a routine."

"Sure.  Do what you gotta do, man."  Mickey shrugs.  He can appreciate Ian's self preservation tactics.  “But this ain't like one of those things chicks do where their friend calls and pretends there's some big fucking emergency to get them out of a shitty date, is it?” Mickey asks with feigned suspicion. Ian's eyes go wide.

“No! Fuck no! I want to stay, trust me.” And he gestures to his flagging erection as proof.

“Relax. I'm just busting your balls.” He glances down at Ian's package again. “Well, maybe next time.”

Ian guffaws, and they shuffle in the dark to the front door, where Ian hops around as he tugs on his chucks.

“This was really awesome,” Ian tells him. “You're different than I expected. But in a good way.”

“You too,” Mickey agrees. “In a good way.”

“I'm off work still,” Ian tells Mickey, pulling his hoodie up to cover his stitches. “You wanna do dinner again tomorrow? Maybe start a little earlier this time?” He gives Mickey a daring look up and down.

“Don't get home from work til six, man,” Mickey groans. Ian's face falls a little.

“How bout lunch, then?” he wheedles. “I could meet you somewhere on your lunch break? Then we can do a rain check for this weekend.”

“You gonna make me wait that long to see what I'm working with, huh?” Mickey teases, returning the favor and ogling Ian from toes to head, lingering on his crotch.

“You a size queen, Mick?” Ian murmurs, moving closer to loom over him.

Mickey licks his lips.

“Why, you nervous you won't measure up?”

Ian snorts derisively, but doesn't answer. Instead he prompts again, “So, lunch?”

“Yeah. I'll text you,” Mickey promises. He shuffles from foot to foot. “This the part where we kiss goodnight?”

Ian responds with a goofy crooked grin.

They're still smiling when their lips connect again for the last time for the night.

“Text me,” Ian orders Mickey as he opens the front door.

“Okay. See ya.”

Mickey barely suppresses the urge to lean his head against the door like a total girl after he shuts it behind Ian. He owes that drunk hobo a thank you card. Or a bottle of Jack.

The next morning at the station Mickey looks around for Ian out of habit before he remembers.  He wonders if 7:45 is too early to text someone.  He's pretty sure it makes him look desperate, so he holds off.  Until 9:30.

He has a perfect opportunity to slip away as they finish buffing out a key scratch on a black SUV.  Mickey wipes his hands on a less than clean rag and steps from the shop into the cluttered, empty office to work out a text.

_you still up for lunch today?  there's a good food truck up here._

Ian's response is immediate.

_definitely.  send me an address and a time._

He does as he's told, feeling a little guilty about Ian making the hike all the way North Side for a half hour's time, but not guilty enough to give Ian an out.  He wants to see him again, soon as he can.

Usually he eats with the guys in the break room, but he begs off today and heads out, walking swiftly.  They look at him a little curiously.  They've never been quite sure what to make of him, he thinks.  When he was younger he'd gotten pretty good at playing straight.  Probably went a little overboard, even.  But as he got older, spent more and more time outside of the group home mentality, he stopped pretending.  Doesn't mean he's gone out of the way to tell the truth.  They're good guys, generally.  Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they knew.  Definitely would make it easier to see Ian around work hours.  (Jesus, he's that far gone that he's planning a life around the guy.)

Ian's waiting for him again as Mickey approaches, hoodie over his head like last time.  He looks more relaxed than the first time.  Mickey wipes his hands on his uniform reflexively.

"You been waiting long?" Mickey asks, tossing the butt of the cigarette he'd smoked on the way over. 

"Bout a half hour or so."  Mickey stares at him.  "Kidding," Ian placates with a laugh.  "I've literally been here like three minutes."  He looks just as good as always.  Mickey's heart does a little flutter, and his dick takes a little interest too. 

Mickey orders his usual and Ian hems and haws over the menu for long enough for the woman behind him to start passive aggressively sighing.

"Dude, it's a fucking taco truck.  Shit or get off the pot here," Mickey advises.

"I'll have what he's having," Ian tells the cashier, and Mickey and the woman behind them groan.  Ian doesn't even bother to look repentant.

Mickey pays this time, because Ian did last time.  He shakes his head a little at himself.  This is his second date.  With the same guy.  Who he really likes.   

"This guy saved my life last week," Ian tells the food truck worker as he reaches up to grab their order for them minutes later.

"Jesus."  Mickey tugs a hand through his hair.  "Why you gotta keep introducing me like that?"

"Because it's funny.  And it's true."  Ian shrugs, eyes laughing as they walk a few feet to a bench along the bustling street. "I'll still be telling our grandchildren the story in fifty years, so get used to it."

"You suggestin' that you and me'll have mutual grandchildren, Gallagher?" Mickey teases through a mouthful of taco.

The tips of Ian's ears turn red and he ducks his head.  They've only spent a short time together, but Mickey loves it when he makes Ian blush.

"You seem like you'll be that old guy who inappropriately kisses all his grandkids on the mouth and demands everyone pull his finger," Mickey tells Ian.

"Yeah, well you'll be the crotchety old guy who yells at kids to get off his lawn and hands out boxes of raisins for Halloween."  Ian laughs, embarrassment dissipated.  Mickey shoves at him again, unable to resist touching him.

"Fuck off with the raisins. Kids won't get shit from me."

"My point, ladies and gentlemen." Ian raises his arms and turns this way and that, addressing an imaginary crowd.  He keeps snickering as he pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of Mickey mid-bite.

"What the fuck was that for?" Mickey growls as he chomps down.

"Mandy wants evidence," Ian says simply, anticipating Mickey's next move and hopping out of reach of Mickey's attempt to snatch the phone away.  Ian chuckles and Mickey flips him off.

"Shoulda let the L eat you for breakfast."  Mickey shakes his head and balls up his taco wrapper, hiding his grin as he gets up to toss it in the trash.

"Mm, human pancakes." Ian makes an attempt at a robot voice.  Mickey stares at him.

"That supposed to be an impression of the train?"  Mickey snorts.

"Fuck you, you laughed."

"At you, not with you, I Love Lucy.  You always eat this slow?"

"Real eager to get away from me, huh?"  But Ian picks up the pace a little and finally swallows his last bite.  "How much time you got left?"

"Not much.  Walk me back?"

"Can I hold your books for you too?" Ian shoves Mickey playfully in the shoulder as they start walking and Mickey rolls his eyes.  This kid is such a huge dork.  "So my stitches come out on Thursday and then I'm cleared for work.  So you'll see me on the train again," Ian tells him.  Their shoulders brush a little as they walk.

"Try not to get thrown on the tracks this time, alright?  I got a once a month life saving policy."

Ian doesn't try to hold Mickey's hand or anything, and Mickey's thankful for it.  Ian seems like the type to be out and proud about it, and Mickey's knows he's gotta keep up or get left behind.  He just needs a little time.

"Look," he says, touching Ian's elbow to be sure he has his attention.  "You know I'm not _out_ out at work or nothing.  I ain't ashamed.  I'm just-" He stops, because he's not sure was he's _just._   Scared, maybe.  Definitely.

Ian purses his lips in consideration.

"Yeah," he says finally.  "I get it.  You're South Side.  You're a Milkovich."  He chuckles ruefully to himself, probably thinking about Terry's famous anti-homo rants and bashes back in the good old days.  "But I'm done hiding who I am."  Ian shrugs, and Mickey's heart drops.  "If we keep doing this-" he gestures between them "-which I definitely want to- you gotta be okay with that.  Eventually."

Mickey swallows.  Ian's just confirmed exactly what Mickey was thinking.  It isn't exactly an ultimatum, but it's close.

"Yeah."  It's all he can say.  He kinda wishes he hadn't brought it up.  Silence falls as they wait to cross the street.

They're only a couple hundred feet away from Mickey's work when he makes his decision.

"Hey," he says, stopping Ian's forward movement with a sharp tug on his elbow.  Ian pauses and turns and, Mickey kisses him.  On the mouth.  On the street.

It's quick and chaste, because Mickey's still a little gutless. They pull apart and Mickey glances around on instinct.  The world hasn't stopped.

Ian gives him a tiny shocked, pleased smile.  Mickey sort of shrugs, skirting his eyes away.  It's a promise to try.

"So, this weekend," Ian prompts.  Mickey grins lasciviously, previous anxiety forgotten, and he works his lower lip into his mouth.

"This weekend," Mickey agrees.  "Take out at my place?"

"Definitely."

The sex is gonna be real good, Mickey can tell.

"I'll see you on the L Friday.  We can bang out the details then."  Ian grins, and Mickey groans.

"Let's hope you're better at sex than you are at making puns."

"That's the beauty of it Mick, puns are _supposed_ to be bad."

Mickey's body tingles a little.  He can't explain why, but he thinks it has something to do with the familiarity between them already, even though everything is so brand new.  And to think it all came about because of a horrible, scary as fuck accident.  Without Ian falling on those tracks, Mickey'd probably still be staring at him over the top of his phone every morning like a creep.

Maybe one day he'll tell Ian about his little obsession.  Probably not, though.

They say goodbye, but they don't kiss again.  Instead they do the bro hug thing, and Ian squeezes Mickey's shoulder before he lopes off.  His hoodie blows down in the wind, exposing his injury and Mickey grimaces.  Hopefully by Saturday it'll look much better.  Mickey's got big plans.

As he returns to the shop _,_ dragging his feet a little, because nothing'll beat that lunch break, his phone buzzes.  He grins, expecting it to be Ian with something really dorky to say, but instead it's Mandy.

She's sent him the photo of him eating the taco that Ian had snapped, followed by a bunch of rainbow heart emojis.

 _i'm the maid of honor_ she adds.  _you owe me for setting you up_.

He's gonna have to kill her if he ever wants to hear the end of this.

_its been two dates calm the fuck down_

He stares at his own response to her for a beat.  He should probably make that text his screen saver or something.

No, he decides.  Can't hurt to be optimistic about something for once in his life.  He likes Ian, Ian likes him.

Might as well enjoy the ride.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this scene](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=IW-_UDU7Kdw) from the movie _While You Were Sleeping_.
> 
> I stole a line of dialogue ("I'll kill you and make it look like an accident") as an ode to one of my favorites, [please try to be patient (and know that i'm still learning)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/742192) by [peggyolson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/peggyolson/pseuds/peggyolson). Go read all their fics and revel in the greatness. #ficwritinggoals


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